


Every Shadow Filled Up With Doubt

by Shaicarus



Series: Commissions [2]
Category: The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Character Turned Into Vampire, Child Death, Death, Disembowelment, Dismemberment, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 09:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16385699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaicarus/pseuds/Shaicarus
Summary: Midna holds a hand up, palm flat and facing the sky, and the orange and black crystal appears, hovering over her hand. “There are so many ways the magic of Twilight can change people.” She squeezes her hand into a fist and the crystal vanishes. “I can’t predict them all. But this…?”





	Every Shadow Filled Up With Doubt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Written for HylianKiore, who told me to throw in the whole gory sink, bloody chunks and all. Heed the warnings.
> 
>  
> 
> [Cross-posted to tumblr.](http://shaicarus.tumblr.com/post/179344811755/fandom-legend-of-zelda-twilight-princess)
> 
>  
> 
> Fic title comes from Bad Things by Jace Everett, because I am a trashfire.

The sun is bright overhead, and Link shields his eyes with one hand as he straightens back up to two legs from four. He needs to squint for a long moment before he lets his hand fall back to his side.

Grinning, Midna elbows the side of his head. “I offered to let you keep the lampshade on,” she reminds him, wistful to the point of melodrama. “But no, no, you insisted on bringing the light back.”

He shoves her away halfheartedly with the back of his hand. “Yeah, yeah,” he grouses good-naturedly. “All my fault, I know.” He laces his fingers together and stretches his arms over his head, arching his shoulders back until he feels his spine pop. Midna wrinkles her nose distastefully at the sound.

“Really?” she sighs.

“You try changing shape that quickly,” he protests, and he shakes his arms out before he lets them fall back to his sides. “Tell me how great you feel afterwards.” He rolls his shoulder a few times, and even then he’s still uncomfortable. Like he can’t quite get his sword to sit comfortably across his back. It’s well within the realm of possibilities that he pulled something, but he doesn’t exactly have time to do anything about it. He’s on something of a time crunch, even if he’s not sure what the actual deadline is.

For the time being, he pushes the matter out of his mind. He’s hungry fit to eat a boar, and for the moment he lets that take precedence. His stomach growls, and Midna titters at him and leans on his shoulder.

“Listen, it agrees with me,” she insists, and she drifts out of reach before he can swat at her, grinning toothily at him and the baleful scowl he aims at her.

He clears his throat,making something of a show of not rising to the bait. “Any preferences on dinner?” he wonders, reaching for his bow. He didn’t need to hunt much back in Ordon Village, but the skill’s come to him naturally enough on the road.

“No more  _rabbits_ ,” Midna grumbles, her eyes narrow as she sinks back into his shadow.

“Turkey it is,” he declares as he starts walking. He can’t really help but to grin when Midna groans emphatically, but she doesn’t put in another appearance to complain about the decision.

—

He used to not like setting up camp in Hyrule Field. Even without being covered in twilight, it’s not exactly the safest place to be. Especially at night.

Something about the ability to turn into a wolf the size of a pony at a whim has made him less picky.

Tonight, though, he wishes he’d headed into town, because there is something wrong and he knows it. He just isn’t sure what.

Link’s stomach feels like it’s tying itself into knots. The turkey he shot has been completely picked clean, and objectively that is a truly disgusting amount of food to eat, but he’s still hungry and his stomach is cramping like it’s been empty for days.

His stomach twists, and he groans and curls into a ball, his arms wrapped around his middle like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“Is this normal for you people?” Midna wonders, trying to sound casual and failing rather badly in the attempt. “It doesn’t really seem normal, but I thought I would ask.”

Link groans incoherently and curls up into an impossibly smaller ball.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, and finally something like unmasked concern manages to wiggle its way into her voice. “What is it?”

“Stomach,” he grits out, because it’s all he can say before his stomach gurgles and cramps like it wants to crawl up and out through his throat.

He’s  _starving_ , but he doesn’t want to say that. Both because the idea of actually  _eating_  anything seems utterly unappealing, and because how can he  _still be hungry_?

Thinking about food and being hungry isn’t helping in the slightest, and his arms squeeze tighter around his middle.

“Should’ve let me just shoot another rabbit,” he manages eventually, and Midna laughs, brief and startled.

“I had no idea your constitution was so delicate,” she replies, and she runs one hand over his hair, pushing his hat back as she does. “Next time, I’ll be sure to keep you properly pampered.”

He snorts out a quiet laugh, blades of grass gusting away from his face with his breath. It doesn’t help, not really, but at least it’s something else to think about for a little while.

—

Hours pass before the sun begins to rise, and it feels more like years. The first ray of sunlight across his face paints the inside of his eyelids red, and his face scrunches up. He tucks one elbow over his eyes, but it doesn’t help. The skin across his cheek feels tight and itchy, like he already has an impending sunburn.

On top of the pain still lancing through his stomach, it’s just a little too much. He reaches for the first idea that comes to him to get an extra layer between himself and the light.

“Midna.” He reaches out with one hand, without unwinding from the ball he’s tucked himself into. He feels her tap the crystal against his fingers, and when he finally heaves himself to his feet, he has four of them. He shakes himself briskly, and for a moment at least, he feels a bit less like he needs to claw his way out of his skin.

And then he tips his head back to scent the air, and something smells…not incredible, or even particularly good, but it has his mouth watering regardless. Drool pools in his mouth and drips to the grass between his front paws, and his stomach clenches and gurgles.

When he takes off at a loping jog, it’s less of a conscious choice and more like it’s something he has to do. Gradually, his steps pick up speed until he’s sprinting headlong ahead.

—

He recalls the morning and the early afternoon in patchwork pieces, later. Like looking at a jigsaw that’s missing half of its pieces. He recalls the sound of something shrieking and the noise of his own growling. He remembers holding something in his teeth and shaking it as it squirms until it’s pieces on the grass and little more. He remembers blood on his tongue, thick and acrid and only a mouthful, but somehow still so much more filling than dinner the night before.

When the haze clears, his muscles burn with exertion and he’s panting, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Slowly, his ears straighten up from where they’ve flattened against his head.

He smells blood still, and as he looks around, he nearly leaps out of his fur as he takes stock of the carnage he’s standing at the center of. There’s a dead bokoblin a few feet away, one of its arms torn free. Link would say that the limb is sitting in front of him, but he’s not actually sure; he’s surrounded by enough limbs for half a dozen bokoblins, and only some of them are still attached to bodies. There’s a torso a few yards off, missing its legs and its head, and there’s half of a skull even farther away. It’s missing its hair and most of the rest of its scalp as well, as if it was ripped off by the topknot. What remains of the skin is tattered and shredded, and a hole has been crunched through the visible bone, leading straight to an empty brainpan.

The topknot is sitting at Link’s feet, and he slinks back a few paces as he realizes it, which is also when he realizes he’s standing in scattered innards that have been trampled into paste. He takes one last frenzied look around, and then he barks once, sharp and high-pitched, and he’s not even sure where Midna is taking them when she takes them away from the carnage.

—

Lake Hylia smells fresh and clean, and Link plunges into the water without a second thought as soon as he feels grass beneath his feet again. He dips beneath the surface, eyes closed to avoid seeing the slithering streams of red that curl away from his fur and his claws.

He can only hold his breath for so long, though, and with some reluctance he climbs back out of the water. He shakes vigorously, water spraying in every direction before he sits down heavily.

“Over the hill and a long way off,” Midna sings merrily, “the wind shall blow my topknot off.”

Link glares down at his shadow, where her eyes grin back at him.

“What?” she wonders, feigning innocence. “You’re the one who did it.”

His ears fold back and he growls halfheartedly. She emerges halfway from his shadow, elbows on the grass and her chin in her hand. “Big bad wolf,” she coos, and her grin takes on a sharper edge when he bears his teeth at her.

“Prove me wrong, then,” she challenges, shrugging breezily. “It’s up to you.”

Finally, he rolls his eyes emphatically and transforms back to normal, kneeling on the ground with his hands between his knees.

He stares down at his hands, captivated.

“Not surprising,” Midna muses, reaching out to grab one of his hands. She lifts it in both of her own, inspecting it with a casual air that’s neither convincing nor comforting. What’s visible of his fingers beneath his gauntlets has turned black as pitch, and Midna taps a finger against the tip of one of the claws that has sprouted where he should have blunted nails. “Feeling any better?” she asks, glancing at him sidelong.

He forgoes answering for the time being, instead ripping his hand away from her and shuffling towards the water’s edge so he can check his reflection.

The eyes that stare back at him, wide and unsettled, are burning red. He opens his mouth to ask a question—to demand an explanation—and needs to close it again immediately to avoid looking at the fangs he’s acquired.

Midna hovers behind him, her hands on his shoulders. “Give it a minute,” she suggests, unexpectedly gentle. “Deep breaths.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he sucks in a breath until he swears his ribs are creaking, and his shoulders shudder when he lets it out. When he opens his eyes again, they’ve faded back to blue, and when he opens his mouth, his eyeteeth are back to their regular length and sharpness. The claws have blunted back into nails, but the skin of his fingers is still black as soot, and even his hair seems like it’s bleaching too quickly to be the sun’s work.

He should ask what’s going on. He should ask what’s wrong with him and why it’s happening. He knows he should, but he doesn’t want to hear that it can’t be fixed. Instead, the words that tumble out of his mouth are a dismal, “I’m still hungry.”

“You could fish,” Midna suggests, taking a seat on one of his shoulders. “We’re here, after all.”

It’s an entirely reasonable suggestion, and he doesn’t know why the idea makes his stomach turn uneasily.

“Let’s just keep moving,” he decides after a moment, pushing himself to his feet. His stomach growls and he stumbles a step before straightening. Clearing his throat, he adds, “We need to speak with Prince Ralis. Right?”

Midna hums, skeptical, but she doesn’t argue. “If that’s what you want to do,” she returns, before she disappears into his shadow once again.

—

Everything in the mountains is…tense. Yeto eyes Link with suspicion from the moment he shows up, and he does what he can to keep Link as far away from his wife as he can and offers only the briefest explanation as to how he found the mirror and where he stashed it when it began making Yeta ill. Link is left to search blindly for a key to a room that he only loosely knows the location of.

He’s already hungry when they arrive, but he’s two days into a wild goose chase through the manor when his hunger begins to nag at him in earnest. He grits his teeth through it, and his fangs assert their presence again when he nearly bites a hole through his tongue.

Suddenly, he’s relieved that Yeto is glad not to have his company, but that does nothing for his hunger.

Of the numerous monsters living in the manor, only one of them has a pulse, and that one is encased in armor. Everything else is made of living ice, and not a single drop of blood. It never would have occurred to him before, but suddenly it’s all he can think about, and he can feel his patience stretching thinner and thinner.

When he pulls the key from a treasure chest, he’s too frazzled to feel any sort of relief, and instead sets off silently for his final destination before he can leave and go literally anywhere else. And the mirror shard is there. Right there, on the other side of the room, with the only challenge being that the floor is made of ice and makes it rather hard to avoid looking at his reflection.

And then the door creaks open on rusted hinges, and Link grinds to a halt midway across the floor as Yeta comes into the room.

“You find mirror.”

There is something in her tone that doesn’t sit well; by the time she hisses, “You not take mirror,” Link is already drawing his sword and turning to face her. And gods, but it feels like the sword weighs three hundred pounds, but he’s not going to be chased off three steps from the mirror shard.

The only problem is that he doesn’t really remember the fight, after it happens. He remembers sheathing his sword. He remembers picking up the mirror shard. He remembers leaping out of the way when Yeto charged into the room with an agonized howl. He remembers blood on the floor and blood on the walls and blood on his hands and splashed on his tunic.

But the fight itself is a hazy, nebulous shape in his memory, as if he started and ended it on instinct. His pulse slows gradually, and a chill runs down his spine that has nothing to do with the ice and snow.

“Let’s get out of here.” The words are more of a mumble directed at his feet as he steadfastly refuses to look over his shoulder and acknowledge Yeto sobbing at his wife’s side. If she’s still alive, Link isn’t sure, but he has a dim recollection of running her through. And for the briefest moment, he wanted to lick his blade clean. He still sort of does, and he clenches his fingers in his tunic to keep himself from pulling the sword from its sheath.

“Are you sure that’s the best idea?” Midna asks slowly, hovering beside him. “Taking the long way back might be better,” she suggests carefully. “Fresh air. Clear your head.”

“I said  _get me out of here_ ,” he snaps, and he bares his teeth, only to immediately recoil a step once he realizes how he sounds. One hand flies up to cover his mouth, and he blinks at Midna stupidly.

“…I’m sorry.” His voice is tiny and filters out between his fingers. “Just—please, Midna. I need to get out of here.”

Slowly, she sighs, and she warps them both away.

—

He…isn’t actually sure where he is. Or what time it is. He can’t even remember what it was he was doing. Lacking any of those details, instead he keeps moving forward, planting one foot in front of the other. It feels like he’s slogging through a swamp, as if there’s a weight strapped to him and he can’t let it go.

It’s too dark to be daylight, but when he looks up, he can’t see a single star in the sky and the moon is nowhere to be seen. Even without the light, though, he can see where he’s going, and he keeps following the path in front of him.

The path is rough, and if there’s anything on either side of it, then he can’t make out the details. It only takes a moment for him to decide it’s unimportant. Something ahead of him smells… _incredible_ , and he’s so hungry. So hungry. He keeps trudging forward.

He’s following…something. Something that smells incredible, and makes his stomach clench like he hasn’t eaten in years. It’s only a matter of time before he can see his prey.

Ilia follows the path like a doe or a rabbit, keenly aware that she is prey and that she is being followed. She takes a few hurried steps before glancing over her shoulder, and then she breaks into a jog. In this halting way, she follows the path ahead of her. Link reaches after her, claws grasping at the air, but he’s nowhere near close enough to grab her yet.

But there’s still something slowing him down. He’s holding something,  _dragging_  something, and it weighs at him like an anchor. He just needs to put it down, but he doesn’t even remember what it is just yet.

Ahead, Ilia slows to a halt, peering around cautiously, until she looks over her shoulder once more. Right at Link. A shiver chases itself down his spine as she gapes, wide-eyed. It takes a moment before she can scream, but she doesn’t move. It’s as if her feet have been fastened in place. It’s the perfect chance, but still it feels like he’s dragging a weight behind him.

Finally, he looks down. Just to see what he’s holding onto. And slowly, he blinks. His hand is wrapped around a skinny arm, pale and bloodless, claws digging into the grey and sagging skin. His eyes follow the arm down, from a wrist to a shoulder, to a gaping tear in the neck, where teeth have ripped through the muscle until the bones beneath are visible.

Colin’s face is grey and the skin is beginning to slide. Link doesn’t know how long he’s been dragging the body behind him, but when he looks back over the path he’s walked, the trail of blood seems to extend for an eternity into the darkness.

Finger by finger, he relaxes his grip on the arm and lets the body slump to the ground. He looks up at Ilia, and she’s so much closer now. He doesn’t remember telling his feet to move, but when he looks behind him, Colin’s body seems to be miles away.

He can see his reflection in her eyes, when he looks back to Ilia, and his eyes are red and shining in the dark. She smells so incredible, and he is so hungry. Claws flexing greedily, blackened fingers reach for her.

—

Link wakes up with a yelp when his face meets the ground. He takes a breath, deep and shuddering, and all that greets him is the smell of grass and dirt and pre-dawn dew. He hears a gusting snort and turns his face, and a hoof stamps a few inches from his nose.

Slowly, he rolls over, and Epona lowers her head to whuff a breath across his face. The velvet of her nose brushes his forehead and she tugs at his hat, and he takes it as his cue to finally sit up.

Midna peers down at him from behind Epona’s head, equal parts concerned and unimpressed. Slowly, Link looks around, and his shoulders stiffen as he realizes he’s very nearly reached Castle Town. The fire of his campsite isn’t even a gleaming ember on the horizon anymore. He’s never sleepwalked a day in his life, and yet somehow he’s made it clear across Hyrule Field.

“Well?” Midna asks, and Link jolts back to the present. He takes a deep breath through his nose—and his fingers curl into fists in the grass, still-blunt nails carving into the soil.

_Blunt for how long?_  part of him wonders, and he sort of wants to laugh, but he sort of wants to scream.

Something smells…good. Not amazing. But good. And gods, but he is so hungry. His stomach twists in his gut, like it wants to wrap around his spine, and he feels like he could eat a whole horse—

“Epona, go.” He mumbles the words towards his knees, and his fists clench tighter in the grass until he can hear his claws creaking against his gauntlets and his knuckles feel tight. “Get out of here.”

She snorts and stomps a hoof, and her tack jangles as she shakes herself briskly and shoves her head against his chest. Link bites down on the inside of his cheek, and blood pools on his tongue, thick as candy. His nostrils flare and his jaw goes slack, before his fangs can puncture his tongue. It takes every ounce of willpower in his body to plant a hand on Epona’s cheek and shove her face away.

Insistently, she pushes at him again, grass flattening beneath her hooves as she steps closer. And he’s hungry, he is  _so hungry_ —

He scrambles away and surges to his feet. His boots slip against the dew-damp grass as he turns, and he stumbles the first few steps before he breaks into a sprint towards town, because he knows that she won’t follow him there, even if he can hear her pacing and bellowing after him.

Grass gives way to cobblestone beneath his boots, and he puts on an extra burst of speed. He winds his way through the streets until he gets to the marketplace. The stalls and shopfronts are quiet and the lanterns haven’t been lit yet, and he slides down the wall to sit on the cobbles in front of Malo Mart. His shoulders rise and fall as he catches his breath, and he lets his head thump back against the wall. He flexes his jaw, just to see if the fangs are still there, and he feels the tips of them scrape against his lip. He squeezes his eyes closed.

There’s a small hand against his cheek, and reluctantly he opens one eye. Midna peers down at him, her eyes narrow. For a long few seconds, they regard each other, and then Midna heaves a sigh and drifts down to sit beside him. She reaches up to finger a strand of his hair for a second, before she lets it fall across his face. It seems bizarrely pale, but he’s not quite willing to commit to that observation in the half-light.

“I was worried this might happen,” Midna muses, her voice unexpectedly gentle, even if it sounds as if she’s only partially speaking to him. “Or something like this, at least. Ever since Zant put that curse on you.”

“Sharing is caring,” he remarks glumly when she doesn’t immediately elaborate. His voice sounds dry to his own ears, and he can’t even tell if he’s imagining it or if he sounds as bad as he feels.

She holds a hand up, palm flat and facing the sky, and the orange and black crystal appears, hovering over her hand. “There are so many ways the magic of Twilight can change people.” She squeezes her hand into a fist and the crystal vanishes. “I can’t predict them all. But this…?” She picks up one of his hands from his lap, looking at the claws. “It’s happened before. When we were first banished.” She tugs his gauntlet off, and he steadfastly refuses to look down at his hand to see how high the blackness has crawled. Still, he can feel her trace one fingertip from his knuckles up past his wrist.

“It’s going to get worse.” Her voice is low, and he risks a furtive glance down at her, to see her regarding him from the corner of one eye. “You’re going to get hungrier, and hungrier.” Abruptly, her grip on his hand tightens, until her own claws are biting into his skin. “You can’t give into it.” She lets his hand go, and she’s hovering in front of his face so abruptly that he recoils, his head thumping back against the wall behind him.

“Zelda didn’t die for us just so you could lose yourself,” she reminds him fiercely, cupping his face in both hands. “And that’s what will happen if you try to follow your hunger. You will lose yourself, and it’s not a hole you can ever crawl out of.”

Silence draws taut between them, as if she’s trying to dare him to argue. But what is she expecting him to say? Is she expecting him to try to argue in  _favor_  of attacking someone? She knows him better than that, doesn’t she?

The conversation, in as much as it can be called one, is ushered to a close when they hear footsteps approaching. Midna pulls Link’s gauntlet back into place and melts seamlessly back into his shadow, and he looks up as the steps halt and another familiar shadow falls over him.

“Honey, you are looking like seven kinds of hell,” Telma informs him frankly, but there’s concern painted across her face. Link musters up as much of a smile as he can, tight-lipped and crooked. Telma doesn’t seem particularly reassured by the gesture, and instead simply offers him a hand to hoist him to his feet. “You come with me. If this is what saving the world does to you, then you can play hooky for a day. I’ve got a spare room over the bar, and it’s calling your name.”

He hesitates before he grabs her hand, but he supposes if she hasn’t said anything about his eyes then he probably looks more or less normal again. With that in mind, he lets her hoist him to his feet. It feels like he’s leaving his stomach and his brain behind on the ground, and the world rocks precariously for a moment.

He sways on his feet for a breath, and she looks so  _concerned_ as she catches his elbow to steady him. She pushes his bangs from his face with one hand, and her voice is gentle as she muses, “Like the life’s being bleached right out of you…”

His jaw works silently as he tries to think of something to say that will make the situation look better than it is, but the words won’t come to him and he gives up on the effort. The moment passes, and Telma shakes her head minutely and curls an arm protectively around his shoulders as she leads the way back to the bar.

He knows as soon as he steps inside that following her was a bad idea. It’s empty save for them and a pair of vagrants asleep under a table, but he can still feel his stomach twist on itself. She smells like alcohol and coal fire and the vagrants smell like trash, and in that moment even  _that_  seems like it might not be so bad. His stomach growls like he hasn’t eaten in a week, and Telma laughs heartily as she claps him on the back and ushers him towards the stairs.

“You go make yourself at home. I’m sure I can scrounge up something that can pass as breakfast.”

The smile he offers feels more like a rictus, and he trudges up the stairs only because it’s the quickest way to get away from Telma and the vagrants. He closes the door at the top of the stairs too quickly, and it doesn’t quite latch before he starts pacing.

There’s a mirror hanging on the wall, and he casts his gaze to it to check his eyes. His reflection, instead, is Midna.

“You’re freaking out,” she states, and she does not sound impressed.

“I’m  _not_ ,” he insists, his voice too sharp and too loud in his ears. And then his shoulders stiffen. A second later, the door squeaks open and near silent paws pad inside. Link’s nostrils flare and he flexes his claws.

“Link,” Midna warns, and he turns his back on the mirror. Louise regards him from the open doorway for just a second before her ears fold back and all of her fur stands on end. She has no time to retreat before Link lunges, and his claws bite deep as he catches her by the scruff. She yowls and thrashes in his hold, claws scrabbling at the air, and with an impressive twist she is free, leaving him holding just a handful of bloodied white fur.

He throws himself at the door, weight slamming it closed a hair’s breadth from her nose before she can escape. He drops to his knees and lunges in one movement, and when he catches her the second time it’s with his teeth. They bite deep through fur and skin and muscle, and blood floods his mouth.

Louise thrashes and yowls, and dimly Link can hear Midna shouting at him—“ _Link! Drop it!”_ —but he pays neither of them any mind. His jaw clenches tighter, and Louise spasms in his grasp as he tears his head back, a chunk of fur and flesh still clutched in his teeth. He spits it out and buries his face in the gaping wound between the cat’s shoulder and neck, drinking greedily as his shoulder slumps against the door.

He hears steps hurrying up the stairs, and he gropes towards the knob and turns the lock, as if it’s simply the most logical thing to do just then. Someone pounds a fist against the other side of the door, and he can hear Telma shouting his name, but it sounds like she’s shouting from far away. From a different world.

A small hand strikes him across the face, and his senses come back to him with a jolt. There’s no blood left in the small body he’s still clutching to his face, and instead he’s simply gnawing one fang against a tendon. With an effort, he pulls his face away and carefully lowers the body to the floor. Little of the fur is still red.

Blood drips off of his chin and the end of his nose, and it his tongue darts out to lick his lips. Telma is still pounding on the door. Link’s gaze stays locked on Louise’s body, but he knows Midna is floating in front of him.

“Midna…?”

She brandishes the crystal at him without another word, and he scarcely waits for the transformation to finish before he scrambles out the window and leaps to the ground below. Midna doesn’t bother to point out that someone might see them before she gets them out of there.

—

Link’s feet land in water, swirling pink around him, and when he lifts his head to sniff at the air, he can smell pumpkins. Ordon Village, or at least the outskirts of it. He turns back into a person and stumbles to his feet; he would rather not have a bird sent after him if someone spots him.

When he sees his house, it feels like he’s been punched in the chest. His eyes burn and his chest feels tight, and he closes the distance towards the ladder, but he freezes as he reaches a hand towards it. The black skin of his hands has spread, up beyond his gauntlets to disappear beneath his sleeves. He clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut, and his forehead meets the tree’s bark. He balls up one hand and punches the tree trunk. He freezes mid-motion before he can punch it again when he hears booted steps approaching. A moment later, a familiar voice wonders, “Link?”

His knuckles meet the bark again, and his shoulders sag. He’s hungry. The edge has been taken off, but it wasn’t what he needed and it wasn’t enough, and he’s  _hungry_. He takes a breath, and he can smell Rusl’s pulse.There’s no real thought going through his head as he turns, and Rusl backs away as soon as he gets a good look.

Link feels a twinge of hurt at the fear in his mentor’s eyes, but it’s chased away in an instant by a white-hot surge of  _how dare he_? and he is still so hungry.

He reaches for the Master Sword’s hilt, and pain shrieks through his arm from his fingers to his shoulder, muscles spasming. He casts the blade aside so quickly that it feels more like it jumps from his grasp.

“Link—“

He breaks into a sprint and lunges, hands grasping. Rusl’s fist meets his stomach and he lands in a heap in the grass. He lashes out on instinct, one hand curling around Rusl’s ankle even as he dry heaves into the dead leaves. He spits blood into the dirt, congealed and half-digested, and that seems to give Rusl pause. Just long enough for Link to lurch back to his feet and grab his shoulders.

They both tumble down to the ground, scuffling like feral cats. Rusl keeps saying Link’s name, shouting it over and over and  _gods, just_ ** _shut up_** _._ Link’s claws rip through Rusl’s shirt and press against his abdomen before shredding through. He clenches his hand and rips it back out, just to make Rusl be quiet. The fight goes out of his mentor all at once. Link wastes no time in contemplating this, and instead dives for the man’s neck. He needs to be quick; blood doesn’t flow through a body that’s dead.

Weakly, Rusl squirms, and Link holds his shoulders down with enough force to hear a clavicle crack. He clenches his jaw, ripping through skin and muscle enough that he can not just drink, but gulp it down. Rusl stops squirming before long, and Link grabs his chin and pushes it up and away, as if he can get close enough to burrow straight through the man’s neck. There’s salt and heat and copper, and for the first time in days he can feel his hunger beginning to wane, but still he isn’t fully sated, even when he knows Rusl is dead beneath him.

“Link.”

Like a dog with a bone, he stiffens. His jaw tenses, and meat rips between his teeth. Midna reaches for him, and he rounds on her, flesh tearing. He spits it out distastefully and bares his teeth.

“Oh, please,” she scoffs, and her hair snakes out from beneath her helmet. And…he hasn’t seen her do that before. He blinks, staring, his head cocked to one side, before he advances a cautious step. His back meets the ground with an impact that forces the air from his lungs when her hair surges towards him like a tidal wave of snakes. Tendrils of it curl around his middle, his arms, his legs, his neck, no matter how he thrashes.

“I told you there was no going back.” She hovers over him as she keeps him pinned, matter-of-fact and melancholy.

Link can hear the words, but they make no sense just then, lost beneath the smell of Rusl’s cooling blood and the entrails strewn across the grass, and the pounding war drums of Midna’s pulse. He thrashes against her hold, until his lungs burn and his chest heaves and sweat pours down his face, and even then he keeps squirming fitfully.

Midna is scarcely even paying attention to him, watching the trees instead. The first rays of sunrise are beginning to creep over the leaves, and she waits, until the sun creeps high enough in the sky that light begins to spread across the ground.

Link screams when the light hits his face, like his spine is being ripped from his back with a meathook. He writhes, claws scrabbling at the dirt and heels digging in. For a moment, Midna holds fast, through the smell of burning skin. And then he screams again, that same soul-ripping scream, and she releases him. Link trips to his feet, catches his balance on the ladder to his house, and pelts off down the path, running blind.

When something like clarity returns, he is huddled in a ball in one of the tunnels outside the spring. Ordona’s presence scratches at his thoughts like field mice, but it’s blessedly dark, and all he could smell is dirt and roots. No meat. No blood.

His claws dig into the dirt, and he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will himself to wake up. If he has any sort of luck, he’ll open his eyes and be in his own bed and everything will be normal.

He hears a scream as someone finds Rusl’s body, and he huddles into a small ball, pulling his hands over his head. He grinds his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut until patterns zigzag across his eyelids, but the screaming doesn’t stop and it only gets louder as more of the villagers join in.

His ears are ringing, and his breath is coming too quickly. All he can smell is dirt and his own charred skin, and all he can hear is the  _screaming_. Or maybe that’s him. He’s not really sure.

Midna ghost’s a hand carefully over his forehead, and the world goes still. The screaming has stopped, and he’s not even sure when that happened. If he listens, he can hear it raining, and he supposes all of the evidence of… _earlier_ …has been washed away.

Well. Save for his sword. But is it even his sword anymore?

He’ll need to find out, won’t he?

Thunder rumbles outside the tunnel, and he takes that to mean it’s probably dark enough. If it’s even still daytime. Is it? He isn’t sure. He squirms and crawls out of the tunnel, and he pauses at the edge of the spring to look at his reflection in the water. The rain distorts it, but it’s clear enough all the same. Not an inch of his skin is unblackened, and his hair is the faded gray of ash and smoke. He lifts a hand to look at his claws, before slowly closing it into a fist.

“Where are you going?” Midna demands, her eyes glaring up at him from his shadow when he starts moving. He rounds his shoulders and keeps walking.

When he makes it back to his house, there’s no sign of a fight. The only thing out of the ordinary is the Master Sword, still sitting in the grass.

“Hold on a second!” Midna snaps, appearing in front of him. He sidesteps her and keeps walking, gaze locked on the blade.

“You don’t even know what will happen if you touch it!” she reminds him, hovering over his shoulders as he comes to a halt.

“It got rid of a curse before,” he reasons, and he drops gracelessly to his knees beside the sword. “Who says it can’t do it again?”

“It could just kill you outright,” she replies, grabbing a handful of his hair and pulling him to look at her. “Is that what you want?”

He watches her steadily, and she flinches and lets him go. He turns to look at the sword again. “There are always more heroes.” He’s talking to himself more than he’s speaking to her. “I guess we’ll see what happens.”

Still, he hesitates for a second, before he takes a breath and steels himself. He reaches out, and curls his fingers tight around the Master Sword’s hilt. The blade pulses with light.


End file.
